Coda
by purplepeony
Summary: James Wilson returns to die. This could be read as vaguely House/Cuddy.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Coda

Author: purplepeony

Author's Note: After what House did to Cuddy, I cannot see the two of them ever being together again in a way that is true to Cuddy's character. So, this is not that. But it's a self-indulgent little piece of angst.

* * *

October came and went, bringing with it the colors of fall; November started, bringing the bitter winds and rain which foretold the coming of winter. And nobody heard anything from James Wilson.

Lisa Cuddy knew that she was no longer the second person on his list of people to contact, but with the upheaval of the past six months, she wasn't quite sure who he would contact, or if he would turn to any of his friends from Princeton-Plainsboro. After House's death, she had hoped that he might contact her again, might try to figure out what their friendship was without the complication of House.

But instead he had vanished, leaving behind the hospital and his entire life associated with the hospital.

When she had contacted Foreman and Chase, they had told her that neither knew where he was. Although she could hear the caution toward her in their voices, she believed that they were both telling the truth. None of the three of them wanted to not know what had eventually happened to Wilson, or to someday find that he'd died an anonymous John Doe in a hospital somewhere else.

The months had passed, and nobody heard anything. Being doctors, they all knew that time left to him was only a estimate, but as those months passed and then more, the worry that he had died somewhere, alone and unknown, grew stronger.

Then one night in mid-November, her phone rang.

"Dr. Lisa Cuddy?"

"Speaking."

"This is St. John's Hospice, in Trenton. We had a patient check in today, James Wilson, and we were asked to contact you."

Her heart skipped a beat. Obviously this meant he was still alive, but also meant that he knew that he was approaching the end.

"How is he? What is his condition?"

"What is your relationship to him?"

Her brain paused for a moment. Somewhere, she still had his medical proxy paperwork, granted back in happier days. She didn't believe he'd ever withdrawn that permission officially. "Physician and medical proxy."

She heard the woman on the other end of the phone clear her throat. "If you could come down and show us the paperwork, or at least fax us the paperwork, we can have one of our doctors discuss his condition with you."

"Is a doctor available there tonight?"

"Yes, until 11pm."

It was eight o'clock, enough time to drop off her Rachel with a friend and drive there. "I will be there by 10pm."

"We will see you then."

It was a clear night, though cold. She managed to arrive closer to 9:30, paperwork in hand, and wondered. How had he ended up here? Where had he been? She hurried through the front door and focused on the front desk, ignoring the small waiting area, ignoring the man who abruptly stood up and stiffly moved past her.

The woman at the front desk blinked at her hurry, and then said "Name?"

"Dr. Lisa Cuddy, here about a patient, James Wilson?"

"You have his medical proxy information?"

"Yes."

"Dr. Yates should be able to talk with you in a few minutes."

"Who told you to call me?"

"The man who brought him in, Michael Smith."

She frowned, the name didn't ring any bells.

The receptionist stood up and glanced toward the waiting area. "He was just over there ... I guess he's gone now. Skinny old guy, with a limp."

"A limp?"

"And a cane. It had flames painted on it, kind of neat."

Cuddy's breath caught at the description. While the logical part of her brain knew that he was dead, the description brought House to mind. She was well aware that between the worry about Wilson and her personal refusal to think about House, she hadn't really processed his death. But she knew he was dead, she knew that he had chosen to abandon Wilson via his own self-destructiveness the same way that he had chosen to abandon her. She knew that he decided not to be the one who had stood by Wilson through whatever he had struggled through during the past six months.

"Skinny, with a limp, and a cane with flames?" she found herself repeating.

"Are you okay? You look slightly pale."

"I just need to sit down for a moment ..."

Wilson would soon be able to clear this up. She wasn't quite sure how or why he'd managed to find another friend with a limp and a cane, but certainly that was the explanation. He'd probably found himself a cancer support group while he'd been on the lam from the rest of his life, and there were plenty of people in those types of groups who suffered from various disabilities. It would make sense that he had found himself someone who vaguely reminded him of House.

Dr. Yates came out a few minutes later. She was an older woman, short with graying hair. "Dr. Cuddy?"

"Yes."

"I have been told that you're James Wilson's medical proxy?"

"I am, as long as he still wants me to be."

She sighed. "I'm not sure how much say he'll have in the matter."

"What do you mean?"

"You know he has terminal cancer?"

"Yes, but he disappeared several months ago, and I'd like some information about what his condition is now."

"When he was brought in this morning, he was barely conscious. He's in decent condition for someone at this stage of his disease, but he's pretty close to the end. I think he will wake up again, but he has days left, if that. You said that he disappeared? Obviously he has been getting some type of care somewhere through today. Palliative care. When he came in, his morphine levels were already pretty high.

"Mr. Smith, the man who brought him in, had all his medical records and insurance information. As well as paperwork identifying him as Mr. Wilson's medical proxy. But he told us to call you, identified you as the person who would handle decisions about Mr. Wilson's care from now on."

Cuddy had known that if they found Wilson again before the end, this would most likely be the result. It wouldn't be the Wilson she remembered, the Wilson who she wanted back. It would be a sick and dying man who had disappeared on them all. But the reality was proving to be a bit much. She wished that she had called Foreman or Chase to come with her. But she was here, and she was alone.

"Can I see him?" she asked.

"Of course. He's in a room in our hospice wing, on the second floor."

She quietly lead Cuddy to a dark room on the second floor, as Cuddy tried to ignore how familiar yet strange the environment felt. It wasn't active like the hospitals she was used to, but quiet and peaceful in a way her hospitals rarely felt.

She entered the dim room to find Wilson asleep in the bed. A few monitors stood around him, ready to be used if necessary but dark and dormant for now. A morphine pump did stand next to the bed, its red numbers glaring through the darkness, but she ignored it.

He looked good for someone two months overdue for death. His face was thin and his eyes hollow, but his skin was a decent tan shade that said he'd been out in the sun and he looked relaxed in his sleep. Over in the corner of the room, motorcycle leathers were laid carefully over a chair, next to what appeared to be a well-worn leather bag.

She sat down next to him and took his hand in hers, expecting to find it thin-skinned and limp. Instead, it was well-calloused with tough skin on the palm, nothing like the delicate hands of the doctor she remembered.

At that, he stirred and opened his eyes, and she felt guilty at waking him up. "Howww …" he slurred for a moment, before his eyes focused.

"Lisa," he then whispered, his eyes focusing.

"James," she greeted him, surprised by how focused his gaze seemed to be, given that Dr. Yates wasn't sure if he was going to wake up again.

"I guess it has come that time," he whispered, his eyes focusing on the ceiling. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry?"

"In his attempts to be selfless, he was incorrigibly selfish."

"Who?"

"House."

"House is dead, Wilson."

"That statement may now be true, I don't know."

She glanced at the numbers on the morphine pump, impressed that he was awake and talking at the dosage they'd allowed him. Grasp of reality might be beyond him now.

"I'm here now. Is there anyone else you want?"

"Does anyone want to say goodbye at this point?"

"I think that Foreman and Chase will be glad to know you're not some John Doe in a morgue somewhere. Sam also has been worried about where you are, although I'm not sure whether she wants to punch you out or say goodbye …"

Wilson laughed, a short, hoarse laugh that sounded nothing like she remembered. "You can tell them that I'm here. It's safe now."

"Safe?" she questioned, still confused.

"Safe, and normal, and nothing like the past six months."

"Okay, then," she paused, then continued "Where have you been?"

"Where haven't I been? Did you know that Route 66 is oddly beautiful from the back of a motorcycle? And Going to the Sun Road in early fall is eerie. You have the touristy places out west to yourself as soon as September starts."

"Who were you with?"

"Does it matter?"

Cuddy could feel the evasiveness in that answer, and realized that the morphine level in his blood meant nothing about his grasp of reality. "James, someone was taking care of you."

"Yes, someone was."

"Who?"

"A ghost and a friend." He laughed again, that same short and hoarse laugh. "Lisa, you wouldn't believe the story of my past few months. So I'm not going to tell it."

"Okay." She knew when she had lost a conversation. "I'm going to go call Chase, Foreman, Sam … anyone else I can think of …"

"Cameron, too. Please do. I think I can keep my head about me for another day or so." Wilson sighed, and she could see the strength go out of him. "Really, I am sorry Lisa."

"It's not the time to talk about that," she said in response, locking down the part of her heart that wanted to rage at him. "You go back to sleep, and I'll be back tomorrow."

"Okay," he sighed, closing his eyes. She laid his hand back on the sheet and slipped out, headed back toward the entrance and waiting area.

The receptionist provided her with information on visiting hours, the information she would need to pass onto everyone else, and she walked out into the cold wind. Bits of sleet bit at her cheeks, the clear night having turned cloudy. She walked over to her car and leaned against it for a moment, deeply breathing in the frosty air. Once again, she didn't know how she was going to do it, but she knew she needed to hold herself together.

As she pulled herself together, she noticed a piece of paper stuck under her wiper blades, its edge rustling in the wind. She rolled her eyes, the rush of annoyance that someone would stick an advertisement on a car parked in the parking lot of a hospital at 11pm at night fueling a small spark of anger. She stormed over to pull it out and opened it, wanting to see what kind of organization would do such a thing. But all she saw were a few faint handwritten words, too small and faint to be read in the dim light of the parking lot.

She opened the driver's door, started the car, then turned on her overhead light. In handwriting so familiar she refused to recognize it, she saw written, _Cuddy__, __I__'__m __sorry_. There was no signature.

That was when she leaned her her head against the steering wheel and allowed herself to cry.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's note: I thought the story was done last night, then it very sternly informed me there was more. If you thought the first part was sad, fair warning, this may be worse.

* * *

James Wilson lived for seven days after entering hospice, and was awake and aware for five of those days.

He greeted all those who came to see him, reminisced with those who wanted to reminisce, listened to those who needed to rant. When Sam showed up, she ranted at him for nearly half an hour, calling him a selfish bastard and demanding to know where he'd been the past six months before breaking down in tears and fleeing from the room. Cuddy, standing outside in the hall, listened to the whole rant and hoped that maybe she would spur Wilson to give some information about where he'd been. But he said nothing beside "I'm sorry."

Cuddy didn't try to question him on the topic, partly afraid that he would not tell her, partly afraid that he would. As far as she could tell, he hadn't even given the odd hints to anyone else that he'd given to her, and she had chosen not to show him the note she had discovered.

None of the doctors at the hospice commented on his high level of awareness despite the level of morphine he was on, and she simply allowed them to make the choices about comfort rather than safety that hospice doctors and nurses were so talented at. She recognized as well as they did that this meant he'd been under the care of someone else who knew how to manage addiction and opiates-if they believed he'd been under the private care of a doctor with pain management experience, it wasn't her place to enlighten them.

For all she knew, he had been.

The night he slipped into final unconsciousness, Dr. Yates carefully reminded her what she already knew-each time he fell asleep, the chances of him waking again grew smaller. She nodded and reaffirmed what she and Wilson had both told them several times. No extraordinary measures. Let whatever happen, happen. Two days later, it did.

Thus, she found herself planning a funeral for just days before Thanksgiving. She made sure his obituary included the information about the wake and service, knowing that there were many people in the community who would want to pay their final respects.

She had not attended House's funeral, so she could not judge how well attended his had been versus Wilson's. She could see the weariness in the faces of those who had known them both-two deaths, two funerals in six months would affect anyone. When it was the deaths of two men that many people had complicated relationships with, the deaths of two men who had affected many in extremely positive and extremely negative ways, the effect was worse.

The service ran long-many former patients of Wilson's stood up to express their gratitude and grief. Many of his friends told stories of his life before. Nobody talked about how he'd disappeared, or how he'd returned.

She chose not to speak.

A smaller group went to the graveside. It was a typical gray and cold November day, with a bone-chilling wind but no rain. They all said their goodbyes there, she not having planned anything further. She overheard Taub, Adams and Park planning to go somewhere to grab a meal, but they didn't invite her. Foreman, Chase, Cameron, and Hadley stood silently separate from her and one another, then eventually left together.

She walked back to her car, but did not leave. Her mother had Rachel, she wasn't expected anywhere else.

Time passed. The employees of the cemetery filled in the grave efficiently, leaving just the disturbed soil to show that someone had been buried in that site today. They left just as dusk started to fall. Still she waited.

Just as it was becoming too dim see properly, she heard a motorcycle pull up on the road behind her. She knew he could see her car. He parked and walked slowly over to the gravesite, a hat pulled low on his head, and his collar high on his neck. But nothing could hide the limping walk she was so intimately familiar with.

She exited her car, and walked over to stand next to him. They both stared down at the raw earth, refusing to look at one another. Behind them, a car drove past on the narrow cemetery road, but it continued somewhere else, the sound of its motor fading away.

"He didn't tell anyone," she spoke softly, her eyes still focused downwards.

"I didn't think he would."

"Then why did you leave the note?"

"Because I didn't think he would."

"I hate you."

"You have every reason to hate me."

His knuckles brushed briefly against hers, maybe an invitation. She hesitated, then put her hand into his. The skin on his hand felt papery-thin and warm, and he was trembling, the last bit of evidence that this wasn't some sort of dream or delusion.

"Was he happy?"

"You know I'm not very good at judging the happiness of others," he said. "He seemed to be."

"I cannot figure out whether this was the most completely selfish thing you have ever done, or the most completely selfless."

"Maybe it was both. I'm gifted at being completely screwed up like that."

She finally turned to look at him, but between his collar, his hat, and the growing darkness, his face was completely in shadow. "House, let me see you."

He looked down at her, bringing his face into view. It was even older and more grizzled than she remembered, the stress of caring for Wilson over the past six months having added more lines to his face. Then her sight traveled up to his eyes, and she put abruptly put both hands to his face to hold him still as he tried to look away from her again.

"Now, I know that I'm not the diagnostician that you are, but House ..."

"Jaundice, a sure sign of acetaminophen-associated liver damage."

"You need treatment."

"I'm already dead. Why would I need treatment?"

"We can call Foreman, Chase ... they would work it out."

"I'm a felon who faked his death in order to avoid returning to jail. I'm an addict with a proven inability to stay off Vicodin. The only thing that will help me is a liver transplant. Do you see a transplant board approving a transplant for a jailed, addicted felon?"

"Did Wilson know?"

"The jaundice became noticeable only about two weeks ago. While he was still fairly cognizant, I'm not sure how much he was noticing outside his own pain."

"He knew."

"He probably did."

"He knew."

House didn't respond to the firmness in her last statement, but again looked away from her. "I told myself that for once in my life, I was doing what someone else needed. Does it matter that it was what I wanted too?"

She couldn't answer that question. She had always had an instinct that even Wilson had seemed to lack, the insight that told her when House had or had not manipulated a particular end. She didn't know if she could trust that instinct now, with a man who had every reason to lie to himself as well as to her.

"I think you did what he wanted to do, whether you manipulated him into that or not."

He turned his gaze back to her again, and looked her directly in the eye. "I didn't know what you would do."

"I want to scream at you, and hit you, and ask you what the hell you were thinking. Not just about this."

"Why aren't you?"

"Would it be worth it?"

He shrugged and looked away from her. "Only you can answer that."

The exhaustion she had held at bay for the past week took over, and a part of her just wanted to lean against him, to share the sorrow they were both feeling. It had been the three of them for so long, before they'd somehow managed to fuck it all up. It wasn't just about sorrow at Wilson's death, but sorrow that everything had gone so terribly wrong. Whatever they had been had ended, and had ended badly. Now it was completely irrecoverable.

When House put his arm around her, she felt nothing but shock. He had never been good at figuring out what other people needed. So obviously, he needed this comfort too. The realization almost caused her to pull away, but the exhaustion kept her there.

They stood in the darkness for several minutes, regrets thick between them.

He finally took his arm away, and she felt cold, and abandoned. She harshly squashed that feeling, reminding herself of what else he had done. A comforting arm at the right moment did not mean she could forget everything he had done to her.

"I'd better get going. Motorcycles in winter aren't an intelligent idea."

"It matters?"

"Not really."

"House ..."

He looked down at her again.

"Why did it all go so wrong?"

"I was involved."

"You're not a curse."

"No, I made all those choices."

He limped away from her, back to his motorcycle, and her brain told her to just let him go. To watch him vanish into the darkness, to accept that even if he wasn't actually dead, he would be soon. Her heart stopped her from doing that.

"House, stop."

He turned back, looking at her curiously.

"Keep my information on you."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because I don't want you buried in some potter's field, in whatever town you die in. Any more than I wanted Wilson to be in some anonymous grave somewhere."

"I already have a grave."

"You're not there."

He stared at her steadily, and she again steeled herself for harsh refusal or some sarcastic comment.

"Okay."

His simple acceptance of the only request she could make of him, broke whatever steel she had been trying to maintain within herself. She walked over to him, took his rough face in her hands again, stared into his yellowed eyes. "Goodbye, House." And then she kissed him lightly.

His eyes closed, and his hands came up to rest on her shoulders. When she broke the kiss, he cleared his throat, and responded roughly "Goodbye, Cuddy."

He continued on his way to his motorcycle, and she turned away.

She stood at the gravesite a few minutes longer, waiting until the sound of the motorcycle had faded, then she turned to walk back to her car. She was surprised when another car pulled up behind hers.

Chase got out, his face set and grim. "That fucking bastard."

Somehow, she didn't find herself surprised that someone else had figured it out, and she also was not surprised that person was Chase. "How did you know?"

"The clues were all there. Wilson had been out on a motorcycle trip. His health has been managed by someone who understands pain medications, and apparently knows how to get them semi-legally. And who else would Wilson be willing to disappear for?"

"Did Wilson disappear for him, or did he disappear for Wilson?"

"Is that a question that can be answered? Did House manipulate the situation to his advantage or did he take advantage of the situation?"

"Is that question worth answering?"

Chase shook his head and leaned against the car. "Why were you even talking to him?"

"Because I had to."

"Don't let him get into your head ..."

"I think I have years more experience dealing with that than even you do." She paused, then realized it didn't matter. "He's dying too."

He looked at her suspiciously. "Are you sure?"

"His eyes are jaundiced, his skin is dry and paper-like, his hands are trembling."

"Liver failure."

"Not much of a puzzle there."

"He's just going to let himself die?"

"Is there any other option?"

Chase stopped and considered for a moment. In the darkness, she couldn't see the expression on his face as his mind filtered through all the possibilities-all the legal possibilities known by any standard doctor, all the not-quite-sane possibilities considered by any doctor trained by House.

"We could check him in as a John Doe ..."

"Not at Princeton-Plainsboro. Not at any hospital in this area. Not against his will."

"So, the man who spent all his life fighting against death, is just going to let himself die?"

"There's no puzzle, he knows exactly what it is, and how he got here."

"His own death is too boring?"

Cuddy couldn't help but start laughing at the look on Chase's face as he processed that conclusion. Too much in the past week had been too ironic, too dark ... in some ways, this was nothing but ordinary.

"Is it selfish or selfless to prevent others from having to mourn again? If he didn't kill himself some other way, this was most likely the way he was always going to die." Despite her laughter, tears started leaking out of her eyes, and she knew she was falling over the edge to hysterics.

"Hey, hey ... Dr. Cuddy ... Lisa ..." Chase seemed bewildered by her outburst, and she had to admit that she was going over an edge she had always refused to let herself approach. For a second he stared at her in confusion, then he pulled her against his chest and wrapped his arms around her in a tight hug.

She allowed all the emotions of the past few weeks to overwhelm her. The realization that House was still alive, although a dead man walking. The knowledge that Wilson was now dead. The fact that no matter what-no matter what she managed to forget or forgive-the odd little trio that had provided them all with some sort of stability for far too many years, would never exist again. That for all intents and purposes, she was the only one left.

Chase held her against the cold wind and night, and then, as she calmed down slightly, made her sit down in the passenger's seat of his car. She tried to object, but he stated "You're not driving tonight," and pulled out his phone as she sat in the warm car and stared out the front windshield at the dark night sky.

He got into the driver's seat. "Okay, Foreman and Allison are coming to pick up your car. They can bring it back to the hotel where Allison is staying, and she has a room with two double beds. You can stay there tonight."

"This isn't necessary ..."

"At the least, you are having dinner with us, at the hotel. Thirteen is going to be there too. We're not going to let you be alone tonight, even if the rest of them don't know everything that happened."

He looked at her inquisitively, and she asked "do you think they should know?"

"Probably not."

"Nor do I."

"Then you are having dinner with us tonight."

"If that's the price ..."

"You aren't alone."

"We've all been affected by House in some way."

"Yea, and maybe someday we'll be able to figure out whether that is a good thing or a bad thing."

She stared at him steadily, at the one doctor who had in many ways learned the most from House, become the most like him, but without losing whatever House had lost-or maybe never had-along the way.

"Do you think that your years with him were a bad thing?"

He refused to look back at her, but admitted quietly, "no."


End file.
